


The Jealousy Affair

by tempered_rose



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cold War, Eventual Smut, F/M, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Mission Fic, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Spoilers, gallya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4644612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempered_rose/pseuds/tempered_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>SPOILERS for the movie!</b> TL;DR: Gaby hates that she feels something for the big blond Russian but she wants him, more than she wants just about anything. Oh, and there's Napoleon too...</p><p>Longer version:</p><p>"She doesn’t want to pretend anything that involves being alone with the KGB agent in the shop. She almost tells Napoleon that but stops because there’s only so much he can do within his power and this isn’t one of those things. Also, he surely doesn’t want to be part of this mission either, not after the physical contest between the two of them earlier that he was telling her about. He looks good though, so good she wouldn’t have known he’d been in a chokehold in a men’s toilet two hours ago unless he hadn’t told her."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jealousy Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my God. This is officially the longest fic I have ever written! D: And this one was by far easier to write than the last time I said that…hm. Oh well. I really like this fic and yes, there be smut in it eventually ;) I hope you like it as much as I do and please, read and review. Comments are always welcome :D

Gaby hates the Russians. When they came to Berlin when the war was ending, she was told by a neighbor not to trust them. They only wanted to humiliate Germany and take what was never theirs to begin with. She had been very young then, a child still and her father had disappeared to America. She had wondered why she’d never been allowed to go with him, but those thoughts soon were replaced with the images of cold blond faces that shed no emotion. She wondered if they were made of ice.

The wall went up when she was much older, but still a young woman, and removed all traces of the West as the Curtain fell over Eastern Berlin. Sometimes on the cold winter days when she would be walking to the mechanic shop she could hear faint traces of music rolling over the wall as if the coldness of the air helped carry it further. Rock N Roll, it was called, as Solo told her several years later when he would meet her and cook dinner for her in a run down apartment and the radio was playing in the kitchen. She liked Rock N Roll, Gaby decided but she liked dancing even more. Solo had then changed the station to something called ‘Motown’ and Gaby fell even more in love with American music.

She could see why women fell in love with him because surely women had to fall in love with him; he was too handsome and too clever to not induce such feelings in the female of the species, Gaby thought as she sampled the dish that smelled of feet. It didn’t taste like feet, mercifully, and she found herself eating it. She wasn’t overly fond of mushrooms, but he had hidden the flavor well and she could appreciate it. He was pleasant, more than simply pleasant, to look at and his accent was a delicious sound to her ears. It wasn’t German and even better it wasn’t Russian. He sounded foreign, exotic if such a thing was possible.

While he was in the other room with who she assumed was his CIA handler, Gaby took a glance around the apartment. It wasn’t the best, but it was certainly not the worst. There were so many colors. East Berlin seemed to be only gray scale, black and white and the many shades of grey in-between and red. Always red; Red Army, red blood, red flag, redness from the marks they would leave on arms and faces and legs when someone dared speak back and they earned a slap for their trouble. Gaby hated the Russians and she hated the color Red.

Thankfully, Solo had more than just red in his apartment. Orange and yellow melted the hatred she felt for the red color that lingered with the other two. Napoleon came back into the kitchen and saw the empty plate. His smile was a little less forced as he apologized for having left her alone for so long. She wondered if he’d been—what was the American phrase?—chewed out by his superior for having left East Berlin with a lot of attention instead of discretely that he was supposed to have done.

“My apologies, Fraulein Teller, but these gentlemen wish to be considered your safeguards. I am to meet with my boss again in the morning, I will see what we can do about finding your uncle and perhaps your father as well.” He sat on the bench by the table and he rested his hands flat on the table. He looked tired, but not from physical exertion.

“I want to stay with you.” Gaby discovered she wasn’t lying. Napoleon spared her a glance and it was a long one. She wondered what he was looking for. Whatever it was he must have found something like it because he called out to the two gentlemen lingering in the doorway.

“I will keep watch tonight, boys. You may return in the morning.” He flashed a smile and the two rolled their eyes, apparently familiar with this line before the shook their heads and turned around to leave. He waited for the door to click shut and then turned back to Gaby with a raised eyebrow when she placed her hand over his.

“Thank you. For what you did tonight.” She meant it. She didn’t think she’d ever get out of East Berlin any time soon, but mercifully this handsome man had come.

Napoleon nodded and smiled easily. “My pleasure, fraulein.”

“Gaby, please.” She corrected quietly and Solo nodded once.

Gaby shifted closer on the bench, arm still underneath her hand. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak until after Gaby’s lips had been pressed against his. Solo’s lips were soft under her own and firm, and to his credit, he did kiss her back unchastely. He didn’t pull her closer though and he didn’t put his hands on her. Successfully, he had passed her test and she wondered if he knew she was testing him.

“Gaby, I don’t think it’s a very good idea for—”

She nodded quickly and shifted back. “I know. I just…wanted to thank you properly, I suppose.”

Napoleon rose from the bench then and procured a rose from a vase of flowers on the counter and returned it to her. He trailed the petals against her cheek before handing her the flower and he smiled, a tenderness to his expression that hadn’t been there before.

“It was my pleasure. I’ll see you in the morning, Gaby.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead once again and then excused himself to what she assumed was his bedroom.

So the Yanks, as Waverly would have called him, could be gentlemen also. As Gaby washed her plate in the sink, she found she wasn’t surprised that Napoleon was a gentleman. She smiled and went to settle herself in the guest room for the night that she had been shown to earlier. Napoleon had promised that they would go shopping tomorrow afternoon and who would she be to turn that down?

She climbed into the bed, still fully dressed, and closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The bed was softer than the one in her apartment and the smell was considerably improved. It smelled fresh and clean with the hint of Solo’s dinner lingering from earlier. She was warm, not cold under the blanket that covered the bed. Somewhere in a room close by she could hear a television going.

Gaby smiled to herself. Living in something like this for the rest of her life would be very nice indeed. As she fell asleep, she didn’t think once about the man that had almost insured her stay in East Berlin that Solo had successfully dealt with and instead dreamed of a handsome man who could definitely wear a suit as he spoke with a charming American accent.

* * *

She didn’t like the plan from the start, despite Napoleon’s cajoling and preening that it really wouldn’t be so bad. She had always wanted adventure and to fulfill the faith that Waverly had placed in her; and this was her chance, she reminded herself. But that meant having to be quite close to a Russian and she wasn’t sure she could do that. She hated them all.

Gaby nearly leapt from her skin when the monstrous brute from the night before simply appeared behind her. He had made no sound and if it hadn’t been for Napoleon’s eyes diverting to behind her shoulder, she likely never would have known he was there. She asks what he’s doing down there and involuntarily retreats towards Napoleon who remains where he is, casually seated in one of the boutique’s chairs.

Then the big Russian is saying something about being her fiancée and Gaby shakes her head and starts to remove the store’s jewelry before turning to Napoleon.

“I won’t do this.” And she leaves, tossing the jewels aside and starts for the door. He hears her call after her but she’s going to leave. She’s almost positive she’s not acting, she is so very close to telling Waverly that she can’t do it if it means being involved with the Russians.

Napoleon isn’t slow and he catches up to her quickly enough, taking her arm gently under his and she stops to turn back to face him. Gaby crosses her arms and listens as he explains the cover that they’ve created and she still doesn’t like it. She doesn’t want to pretend anything that involves being alone with the KGB agent in the shop. She almost tells Napoleon that but stops because there’s only so much he can do within his power and this isn’t one of those things. Also, he surely doesn’t want to be part of this mission either, not after the physical contest between the two of them earlier that he was telling her about. He looks good though, so good she wouldn’t have known he’d been in a chokehold in a men’s toilet two hours ago unless he hadn’t told her.

Gaby relents eventually, calming down enough to remember she’s on her own mission here and nods once when Napoleon asks if she’s all right to continue. She lets him walk her back into the shop and there is the Russian looking over the fashionable choices. She leaves the pair of them to get into another minor quip contest while she goes to try on some dresses. She’s never worn things so fancy before and she likes the feel of the silk on her skin as she slides into the dress she picked out. Despite herself, the big Russian is handsome and maybe that’s the only fact she’ll keep with her and it’ll be easier to pretend that way. He isn’t old and he isn’t grubby in any way that she can tell. She knows there are far worse agents the KGB could have provided for this mission; big and blond boy over there was a delicious treat in place of a tasteless entrée and she knew it.

She walked out and saw Napoleon’s reaction first. The tenderness he’d had from last night was now replaced with a more base need, a primal one that she felt herself responding to. Gaby found herself looking at the Russian, Illya he had been called she thought, and she noticed he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She looks back to Napoleon and almost begs him to change their cover story so he could be her fiancé instead, but she doesn’t. Napoleon is definitely more suited to being an art thief instead of a Russian architect. Damn.

He bids them farewell in the shop and promises to see her in Rome. Gaby watches him take the coat from the back of the chair and slip it over his arm. He starts walking for the door and Gaby takes a step forward to follow after him, ignoring the giant looming presence behind her. She sighs a little as he leaves without a glance back for her and then there’s a hand, freezing against her skin, on her elbow as Illya wraps up the shopping trip. He places something in her hand, a ring, and she wants to throw it back at him. She would never, ever wear a Russian’s ring on her finger, but he places it on her finger just the same. She doesn’t meet his eyes and looks away from his body as much as she can with it being so close.

“Now we are engaged. Congratulations.” He says and Gaby wants to glare at him and again, toss the ring back to him, but she doesn’t. She thinks of Waverly and how he’s told her to ‘go with whatever they suggest’ but keep him updated.

So she goes with the giant mass of a man as they start to head to the airport so that they may travel to Italy.

* * *

Gaby finds him interesting as soon as she lets herself relax a little in his presence. The flight is long and even she can’t hold a grudge in such close quarters for that long. He should really have booked two seats on the flight since he’s so tall but he didn’t and therefore Gaby is squished against the window.

At first, she makes it worse for herself because she doesn’t want to touch him in any way, but after half an hour she gives up because there isn’t much room and the view outside of the window is more interesting than anything she’s ever seen before. She keeps her eyes on the window as she feels him shift beside her. He’s reading something, she didn’t look to see what, and their arms brush along one another. There’s no spark, but there’s definitely _something_ that crosses between the pair of them and Gaby glances away from the Alpine scene outside to see he felt it also and their eyes lock together. She swallows and looks back out the window, but some tension did leave her body and when their arms touch again, she doesn’t move away like before.

She learns a few things about him on that flight. He has a sense of humor but he doesn’t use it often, but when he does, it’s to try and make her smile. Which she does, she finds, without having to force it. Illya also is extremely protective of her. When he notices another man a few rows over looking at her he shifts closer to her and places his hand on her knee. The massive size of it covers not just her knee but also part of her thigh and upper calf also. She wonders if he feels the goosebumps that spread across her skin. He also liked to keep her close, because even after the man looked away with a cleared throat and renewed interest in his shoes, Illya kept his hand on her. He did move away from her thigh, but his hand rested on his arm.

The one thing Gaby learned about herself was that she liked him touching her. She shrugs it off on the fact she didn’t sleep well the night before, but already she knows it’s a lie. The guest room in Solo’s apartment was the best sleep she had in years.

* * *

They wrestle because she’s drunk and she wants to get into a fight, but knows Illya wouldn’t let her out of his sight enough to have even that much fun. She’s always had a temper and the urge to smack someone she thinks deserves it. It’s a desire that hums in her blood and alcohol only makes it worse, it always does, but she’s been drinking and Illya’s been frustrating. He won’t join her in one and he won’t dance; all he does is stare at that damn chessboard and she’s had enough of it.

She turns the radio up loud enough to provoke him but not enough to warrant a call from the front desk and she dances. Her moves are a little more fluid than they would have been otherwise, the gin having loosened up her reserve just enough to let it all go. She didn’t touch the vodka bottle that had been available in the bar because she tells herself she still hates Russians. Just maybe not the one that can’t take his eyes away from her. She hates that he wasn’t as coarse and rough as the soldiers of East Berlin because she would have had zero doubts or mixed feelings about hating him then.

He tries not to wrestle with her but she won’t have it and attacks him. To his credit, he doesn’t snap the way she saw him almost do earlier. Instead, any injury he inflicts on her is minor and it’s only done so that he defends himself from a particular nasty scratch from hers. He ends up catching her about the forearms and she uses her weight to propel both of them forward and she lands on his chest, he on his back, and their eyes are fixated on one another. She’s glaring at him and he’s only watching her with concern and wariness, afraid she might attack him again.

The record is still playing somewhere in the background but Gaby’s lost all track of the rhythm. Her eyes grow heavy and the gin is catching up quicker than she would like, but he’s solid underneath her and he’s warmer now than before, though his hands are still cool on her skin. The wariness leaves his eyes as the echo of Solo’s desire enters Illya’s blues and she would feel pleased with herself about eliciting such a response from not one but two extremely handsome men. She finds herself leaning down and she’s going to kiss him. She’s going to do it. She wants to know if he tastes like ice or if he tastes like something more, something wild like the way she’s heard Siberia is a vast expanse of wilderness in the north.

She’s going to kiss him because she wants to. She’s going to…She’s…

* * *

Embarrassed by passing out on top of him and then knowing that he somehow tucked her in, Gaby wants to ignore him. But it’s hard to do when he’s sweet and bought her a new ring to replace the one she had stolen. She knows it’s bugged, because why else would he insist upon her wearing it? He’s sweet, but he’s not stupid and she can see just enough of an alternative method behind his pretty smile and his saccharine words. She lets him put it back on her finger; it can be useful one day soon, but not today.

Gaby sits beside him as they head to the racetrack and she doesn’t look at him. She wonders if she did kiss him, then hates herself a little for thinking that. She still wonders how he would taste as they arrive and she sees Waverly but doesn’t acknowledge him at all. The Brit doesn’t seem offended by this because he also appears not to have noticed her either. He does take a look at Illya but then he’s gone and Gaby returns her full attention to her fake fiancé and pretends that she’s absolutely delighted to see Uncle Rudi.

Truth be told, she never was one hundred percent comfortable in his presence. Something was always just _off_ about him and she never could put her finger on why that was. Gaby shrugs it off and remembers what her mother said about him before she died. That Uncle Rudi was never a particularly remarkable boy and he made himself succeed where others did not, but he would never harm her. Gaby let him kiss her cheek as they catch up in German. She knows Illya can speak it but she also knows that Rudi is being deliberate with his use of the language instead of Russian or Italian.

She recognizes the look on Rudi’s face perhaps before Illya does, but she couldn’t think of a clever enough way to deter him from speaking his mind before he does so. She feels Illya’s hand start to twitch beside her own as Rudi makes the comment about pureblood and the abomination of mixing with an inferior. Illya excuses himself despite Gaby saying that wasn’t very nice. She sighs a little and feels a newfound sympathy for him. She never paid much attention to the aristocracy of her ancestry; she didn’t see the point as now they were all German and therefore inferior to other countries in Europe. She wonders why Illya was so sensitive about it and makes a mental note to ask him later.

Right now, she focuses on getting Rudi to admit that her father is in Rome or nearby without seeming so pushy about it. She remembers her training and it’s the fallback of keeping her calm when Rudi says that he can’t help her. He’s lying and she lets him because by then the Italian aristocrat has shown up and is playing at being charming. She doesn’t intentionally want to make Illya jealous—that is a thought that deserves a few moments consideration by itself, but she won’t allow it—but it happens anyway because the blond man is pulling her away from the charming host before she can get a chance to stop him. He half-drags her back to the hotel and then he disappears into the bathroom’s suite and Gaby sighs before she begins to read a magazine.

She didn’t get the chance to ask him if all Russians feel demeaned by aristocrats or if it was just him. She didn’t get the chance to ask him why they had to leave so soon. She didn’t get the chance to tell him she liked the way he looked.

* * *

He’s gone out to the shipyard and he’s gone for a long time. She tells herself she isn’t worried, not really, but the sense of feeling left out and the discomfort of knowing she’s feeling _things_ for him is what causes her to pick up the phone. The sooner this is all over with the better and she can go back to her reward. Waverly always promised a way for her to get out of Berlin and she’ll take it with both hands open, and he knows that. Perhaps he looks guilty because they both know he’s taking advantage of her, perhaps he looks guilty because she’s young and pretty and he’s putting her into a lot of danger she wouldn’t have otherwise been in.

Illya returns, looking frantic. She asks him what’s going on but he’s busy moving around the room with the transmitter looking for what he tells her is a bug. Gaby isn’t surprised but says it aloud anyway enough to keep her cover. Finally, Illya finds a sound that carries across clearly. Gaby recognizes the sound the first time she hears it but it’s only on the second moan from Victoria in the room above them that Illya finally gets it. Gaby is amused, even more so when Illya blushes. He quickly turns off the transmitter and Gaby says that it seems he didn’t need Illya’s help after all.

She keeps her amused look on her face even when he turns to face her. Gaby watches him frown and then get a confused look.

“What is it?” She asks, moving back over to her bed and she climbs back in. She still hasn’t forgotten the desire she feels about wanting to kiss him, but now that tomorrow all hell is going to break loose and he’s going to think she betrayed him, she doesn’t think now is the best time.

“I don’t…understand.” He says after a moment. For a spy, especially a Russian one, he’s been incredibly honest with her. She appreciates that and doesn’t want him to stop any time soon, but after tomorrow, if she is still alive by the end of it, she knows she won’t have this explicit trust anymore.

“Understand what?” She asks softly, watching as he leans against the doorframe, watching her. He’s always watching her.

“Aren’t you jealous?”

Gaby doesn’t understand what he’s asking and she frowns as she thinks about it. Her? Jealous? She shakes her head, hair bobbing around her shoulders as she does.

“No, why?”

Illya shakes his head and it’s as though he made some form of judgment in his mind as he starts to get ready for bed. He’s pulling his pajamas from his suitcase and Gaby wonders what she’s done wrong because now he has his jaw firmly set.

“Why did you ask me that, Illya?”

She doesn’t use his name often, only when she has to. Most likely she defers to his surname or ‘you’, and he still comes when she calls. By using his name, she earned herself a glance up and Illya sighs a little as he closes his case and holds his pajamas tightly in his hands.

“What you have arranged with Solo is none of my business.” His accent is thicker and it sends a thrill down her spine, only to be doused by the meaning of his words.

“What are you—”

“If he is to have casual _relations_ with another woman and you don’t care, then who am I to judge you?” He turns on his heel and goes to the bathroom to change clothes. Gaby frowns on the bed as she thinks over what he just said. Her being jealous? Casual relations? _Oh._ She can’t help it, she starts laughing because it’s either laugh or get offended. She keeps laughing as she starts to the bathroom door. She leans against it and calls to him.

“I don’t have a relationship with Solo, like that or otherwise. I only have the professional one.” She says, leaning against the door and she starts when it gives suddenly under her and it opens, and he’s there. She’s propelled forward into his body and merciful Jesus, he’s at least wearing his pajama pants, but nothing else.

Illya catches her before she falls on her face but by doing so, she comes face to face with his chest and all those delicious muscles that are unfortunately hidden by clothes any other time of day. Gaby swallows because what else can she do? Her hands are resting on his arms, one on his bicep and the other on his forearm, for balance and his hands have caught around her middle, not at her breasts but just lower, enough that his thumbs could touch them if he moved ever so slightly upwards. She finds she wants him to as arousal causes her nipples to harden reflexively.

Her eyes are torn from his pecs when he murmurs her name. Gaby’s delighted to see that his eyes are dark like hers must be also. She wonders if casual sex offends him. If it doesn’t, then there’s no reason for him to continue wearing those pajamas and she’s far overdressed anyway. If it does, then her initial assessment about waiting till after the mission and he finds out the truth about her is the correct choice. Whatever fallout comes from that, let it settle before she kicks it all up again by saying she wants him. Which she does; Gaby confesses it only to her mind. She wants him. Wants him so badly she feels wretched for wanting him at all.

“You don’t…want him?” He asks, confusion still on his face. Gaby shakes her head, whispering in the negative and Illya ducks his head to meet hers.

It’s still a bad idea and she knows it, but he tastes unlike anything she’s ever tasted before. He doesn’t taste like ice or vodka or tobacco or metal or anything else she’d imagined Russians tasting like, not that she’d done it often (but more so since she discovered she wanted Illya to kiss her). His mouth is unlike his hands, it’s warm and hungry for hers, she notices as he pulls her closer against his body until she’s flush against him. Oh my, she thinks when she feels just how interested he is in her. Perhaps he’s made of metal after all…

She doesn’t ask why he thinks she was in love with the American because she guesses she already knows. From the first moment he’s seen her, Illya has only known her to be with Napoleon Solo. She willingly went with him over the wall, she turned to him in the shop for protection, and she wanted him to be her fiancé from the start. Why wouldn’t he assume she was in love with him? Especially with the fact that she did want Napoleon also; she _was_ curious about his whiles and charms and perhaps one day she could sample his as well. She certainly would feel less guilty about being with Napoleon than with the Communist. Perhaps her uncle’s rhetoric has rubbed off on her a little and she frowns at that thought before it’s chased away again by Illya.

Illya’s hands are firm as one slides around her side to press against her lower back to hold her in place as he continues to kiss her. She’s breathless and she’ll need air in a few more seconds or risk passing out entirely, but she doesn’t want to separate his mouth from hers. He tastes so good, better than any dessert or succulent meal. He’s better than a cocktail and sharper than whisky. He affects her so much and she doesn’t know how to handle the onslaught of desire that’s running through her bloodstream. She wonders if they were in a more lewd position, would he have reached down to grab her bottom by now or was he always this polite?

Gaby decides to test it for herself when she finally does break the kiss so she can gulp in some much-needed oxygen.

She breathes through her nose and stretches up to her tippy-toes, thankfully he’s still leaning down to her level, and she kisses the skin of his neck. She feels a shudder go through him and she feels a sense of power knowing that she caused that reaction. One of her fingers ghosts across his nipple while her palm settles on his chest, delighting in the feel of his muscles under her hand. Illya groans and his hand finally does slide a little lower, touching the curve of her behind and she sucks on the skin of his neck. She wants to mark him, she decides, and starts to do so when Gaby feels him swallow hard under her lips.

“Gaby, please…” He whispers and his hand moves from her backside again to her back. His other hand lifts to her wrist that now rests on his shoulder to keep him in place while she works on leaving her mark on him. “ _Please_.”

He says again and she isn’t sure what he’s asking for. To continue? To stop? To return to him his sanity? To save him from his obvious lust for her? He hasn’t made any further move to pull away from her, apart from resting his hand on her wrist. It’s as if he’s waiting to see how she reacts. Will she get offended if he wants to stop it now and leave him in the state he’s been worked up to? Will she continue to kiss him and then force him to give in to his desire and make love to her like he’s wanted to do for days?

“What do you want, Illya? Tell me.” She whispers against his throat before she places a soft kiss there and he groans. It’s not enough, but it’s too much at the same time it would seem.

“I want you, so desperately.” His voice is rougher than sandpaper and far more accented than she’s ever heard it. She wonders if he slides back into his native tongue when he has sex. She feels herself get wetter wanting to find out for herself.

“But?” She prompts, knowing that there must be something, some deeper constitution he has that she does not, that keeps him resisting her when it’s so obvious that he wants her too.

“The mission…we need to rest.” He nods to himself, as if reminding himself that this was the best action.

For her own reasons, Gaby actually agrees with him. It’s better that they part here before anything ever actually happened because once the deed is done and the bomb is secured with her father released, they will only have a handful of hours before they are separated. It’s long enough to have sex, but not long enough to make empty promises of the future together. They may not even have that chance, depending on how things go. One of them could end up critically injured; one of them could be dead. She refuses to think they would both die. She would save him if she could, if she had the chance. Maybe her uncle’s rhetoric hasn’t rubbed off completely on her after all. Perhaps Solo will intervene or Waverly or anyone else that keeps trying to push them apart like they have the few other times they’ve tried to kiss.

Gaby comes to the conclusion that if they don’t have sex now, they likely never will before they separate for who knows how long, perhaps forever. Could she walk away from this man knowing that she had a chance to love him for a few hours? She would hate herself in the morning, she’s positive about it; she’ll probably hate herself for a thousand mornings if not more, but she says it anyway. With a whisper she nods, and starts to pull back from him. “Alright, Illya. Alright.”

Illya swallows hard and nods his agreement as he steps back into the bathroom. “I’ll just be one moment.”

Gaby nods and gives him his privacy to turn back to crawl into her bed. She’ll pretend that she doesn’t hear him relieving his sexual frustration in the bathroom. She’ll pretend she isn’t doing the same thing while he’s gone, using his groans from behind the closed door as inspiration. She finishes before he does but only just, swallowing her cry of release in the pillows, and Illya is only a few seconds behind her. He’s quieter than she expected, but maybe that’s because he’s trying to be so.

Gaby lays awake in her bed and listens to him get into his own a little while later. She wants him, but it’s for the best that it remains like this.

It’s for the best.

* * *

She remembers the feel of his hand on her thigh earlier. That’s the thought she clings to the most as the rest of the day proceeds. Her father’s death. Being almost drowned in the jeep before bouncing around in it. It was a miracle she wasn’t more injured than simply a few scrapes and scratches.

When she’d found her voice and seen Napoleon for the first time since the mission was truly over, and Victoria’s boat was sinking into the sea, she had slapped him about the face. Waverly’s eyes narrowed but she ignored him, the rest of the British naval crew politely averted their eyes apart from one or two curious observers. Illya even moved in surprise as to why she would have hit him, but he did not make a move to stop her.

Napoleon simply looked taken aback at the crack of her hand on his face.

“Don’t you ever try to kill me by rolling me down a mountain again.” She hissed sharply, German accent coming out stronger than before. “Kill me up front if you must, but not in a motor vehicle collision.”

She huffed and turned on her heel to walk out. She knows someone followed her out but she didn’t stop to see who it was. Waverly, Illya, or even Napoleon himself could go to hell for all she cared. She’s upset and she knows why, but it’s hard to say it aloud. The pain of losing her father, for certain this time, catches up with her and it makes her throat tighten with the loss of him. She had always sheltered some small hope, growing up as a girl in East Germany that she would always see him again and he could take her away, back to America or somewhere else for that matter, and they would spend the rest of their lives pretending the war had never happened and that he wasn’t a Nazi scientist and she had never been a British spy. That dream was over.

The same someone who followed her out catches up to her and lightly takes her by the uninjured elbow and she recognizes the feel of Napoleon’s fingers on her skin. He says her name and nothing more but it’s still an apology for what he did and almost had caused. She turns into him and lets the Yank hold her for what could be an hour. Time lost its meaning today and she struggles to keep herself upright. She can feel his hand running along her hair and the continuous movement of his chest as he keeps breathing slowly, steadily. Eventually she pulls herself together and takes a step back and she can see the port of whatever Italian harbor is nearby. Rome, she recognizes a moment later. Solo gives her a concerned look but she shakes her head.

“I want to go home.” She doesn’t realize what she said until it’s out there and she closes her eyes and takes a sharp breath. She opens her eyes again and looks at Napoleon. “I want to be free and go somewhere.”

He nods, taking her hand and placing it in the crook of his arm as the carrier prepares to dock. They don’t have much baggage onboard for obvious reasons and it’s not long before the British ship is in port and secured officially to its mooring.

“Wherever you wish to go, I will happily escort you my dear.” He replies and she hears the honesty in his words. “Just…”

“What?” She asks when he doesn’t continue. Solo looks down on her and he’s trying to be kind without being overbearing. She appreciates it, but she kind of wishes he was being protective to the point of being annoying. The way Illya would have been.

“I would just make sure Waverly says you can go. He’d probably take you back to London now.” Napoleon says and Gaby appreciates his assessment of the situation.

“You’re probably right. To London I will go then.” Never back to Berlin, she doesn’t say, but she feels it straight to her bones. She doesn’t want to be stuck behind a wall, one that cannot be crossed.

She also knows that now her clipped wings have been repaired that she will never see Illya again. For the first time since she left the conn, she takes a look around for the Russian but frowns when she can’t see him. Napoleon notices her distress and he gives her a slight smile.

“Peril is already ashore. As soon as the carrier docked he—” Napoleon trails off when Gaby nods. She presses her body closer to his arm and lets him hold her as she tries to tell herself that Napoleon is safer, the better choice, even though he’s really not. At least he would let her be free, and not keep her trapped in an iron veil. The fact she’s now a British spy and the KGB knows it cements the fact she can never return to Berlin, so really, there is no alternative option. Napoleon is her future now.

So why did that hurt so much knowing that Illya wouldn’t be in her future?

* * *

Waverly had called their mission in Istanbul ‘a new unpleasantness’ and he wasn’t wrong. Silencing permanently an arms dealer trading Nazi secrets to the highest bidder wasn’t a pleasant task. What made it worse was the fact they were the newly formed U.N.C.L.E. unit and this time she was pretending to be Napoleon’s fiancée. She played her part well, according to Napoleon.

Illya had almost quit when he saw their suite for the first time. Unlike before in Rome, there was only one bed and it was not made for one person. Gaby had seen his frustration along with the tap of his fingers against his leg as she fixed herself a drink at the bar. Napoleon was on the phone, being his charming self with the suspected dealer’s secretary trying to arrange a meeting.

Gaby shakes her head at him when she notices his eyes have finally, _finally_ lifted from the floor to look at her. She feels bad for him. She wanted to tell him that nothing’s been going on with the American and that she still wants him, but Illya hasn’t been the same since she left the control room on the aircraft carrier and though he wants to be her bodyguard, he can’t bring himself to be close to the pair of them when they are together. She almost feels remorse for leading him on and wants to apologize but she doesn’t know what to say.

Solo comes back once he’s finished with his conversation and sits down in armchair, loosening one of his buttons on his shirt. Gaby walks by and hands him a drink before sitting opposite him on the sofa that Illya has been taking up most of. There’s still enough room to keep them apart, but Illya’s size makes it difficult and it would be very easy to brush against him.

American’s apparently can’t do silence very well, that or at least awkward ones, because Napoleon is quick to break their stalemate.

“The meeting has been arranged for tomorrow. I am to have lunch with him alone.” He says and the sips the Scotch that Gaby prepared for him.

“I will do surveillance.” Illya says and then says nothing more and Solo shakes his head.

“I appreciate that Peril, but just leave one of your lovely little Soviet trackers with me and you can watch me that way. I think with his paranoia about being followed would not do well to see well, you, lurking in the shadows.”

He’s right and Illya relents before he pushes himself up to his commanding height. Gaby hasn’t looked at him since she sat down but spares a glance to his direction now that he’s standing. Illya nods curtly before turning on his heel to leave, taking note of the way Gaby’s finger is running along the rim of her glass but she’s making no effort to finish her drink. She’s taken to drinking vodka, he notices, but he’s gone before Gaby can say anything.

She watches Napoleon from across the small space that separates them and sees him taking note of her own expressions. “What?” She finally says, just to break his sudden quiet streak.

Solo shakes his head. “He’s in love with you. Or at least, as close as Russians can get.”

Gaby rolls her eyes and finishes her drink as she rises from the sofa. She leaves the glass on the counter near the bar; she’ll have another in the morning with breakfast. She doesn’t have a drinking problem, she tells herself, and shakes her head as she starts to bed.

“You’re imagining things.” She tells Napoleon over her shoulder before dropping her robe to get into bed. Maybe that’s why Illya wouldn’t stop looking at her, because she was already dressed for bed.

She hears Napoleon say something that _she_ is the one who is imagining things but she ignores him and she pretends to sleep. The American comes to bed a while later, turning the lights off as he comes, and there’s a dip and he’s in bed with her. He’s the perfect gentleman and doesn’t move to pull her closer. She wishes he would kind of because maybe she would forget about the man that’s only several rooms away.

“Do you find me attractive?” She whispers and doesn’t look over at Napoleon. She hears him make an amused sound before he inhales to answer.

“Yes.”

“Yet you do not touch me suggesting that you don’t.” She doesn’t know why she started this conversation. He isn’t the one she wants, not really, but as she thought before. She would like to try him out. Does that make her whorish for wanting both of them, or does it make her human for being attracted to two very attractive men? She hopes not, but she’s lost her inhibitions somewhere in a vodka bottle and she decides to push this line of inquiry.

“So you must not think I am that attractive.” She says also, not waiting for a reply of his. What would the charming man say to that, she wonders and wishes she’d brought the vodka to bed with her.

Napoleon’s answer is a physical one, much like she believes Illya’s would be. He pulls her across the bed for the first time since they’ve begun sharing one and she’s under him partially while still on her side. His breath is warm against her face before he adjusts to where she landed and he leans down to kiss her. Where Illya was passionate and devoted in his kiss, Napoleon is also reflective of his personality. He’s charming and kisses perfectly and it’s very, very clear to Gaby why he seduces women so frequently. He’s an expert at it, a master artist and Gaby almost forgets her own name as he kisses her.

His hand has slid under her back and is supporting her carefully while his other hand cards through her hair gently and all of his weight is on his elbow to prevent him from pitching onto her body and crushing her. Despite herself, Gaby’s hands have done some exploring of their own and have travelled up his back and settled one in his hair, the other to cup his face. She shivers violently when his fingers trail along her ribcage, her nightgown doing little to protect her from the sensation of skin on silk. Solo’s hand ghosts over her breast and Gaby feels herself responding to him and she is the one that grinds her hips into his.

It’s Napoleon who breaks the kiss first and she can’t see in the darkness, but she’s sure his eyes are black with lust now. She licks her lips as she tries to regain her breath.

“Decide.” He says and Gaby has to blink. Her brain isn’t catching up with his meaning.

“What?”

“Me, or Peril. Decide now.” He says and he makes the choice hard, he really does. His fingers are gently rubbing along her neck and she can only imagine what those fingers can do in other places. His mouth is talented as well and there’s a slight amount of stubble that she’s sure would feel delicious along her inner thighs. He’s leaning more of his weight on her now, elbow having slipped slightly and Gaby thinks the weight of this man is pleasant enough not to be crushing, but reliable enough to ground her in reality.

Napoleon Solo would be a good lover, she’s sure of it. He would give her freedom that Illya would never be able to and that’s all she’s ever wanted, hasn’t it?

Gaby swallows hard again and smiles as she settles more comfortably into Napoleon’s arms. She’s made her choice and she only prays it’s the right one.

* * *

Napoleon’s been gone for his meeting for almost a half hour when Illya comes knocking. He sits on the sofa where he’d been the night before as Gaby reads a magazine in the chair that Napoleon had been occupying. He’s tapping his fingers again and he looks very much like a man who has a lot on his mind and plenty to say but he stays quiet. Of course he does, Gaby thinks and she’s also thinking that she’s had enough of his stoic silences.

She knows she needs to tell him about her decision, but how did one proceed? Ever since she made it and the events transpired as they did the night before, she has grown more confident and comfortable in her choice. She thinks it’s been the right one, but now when it comes time to actually tell someone else about it, she’s nervous. And she doesn’t like it.

Gaby remembers what Uncle Rudi said about mixing thoroughbreds with cart horses and the way Illya reacted. She never did get her answer about that, then again she never asked.

“Why did you get so angry when Rudi suggested what he did about cart horses and thoroughbreds?” She blurts out and it’s clearly not what Illya had been expecting at all. He frowns as he looks at her.

“Because you should not be ashamed of being with me.” He says and then amends his statement, “I mean…” He sighs and the tapping only gets worse. “In Russia, aristocrat is not something good to be. I do not wish to be reminded of something else that makes us different.”

Gaby watches him as he answers and considers his reply. She wonders if there was more to it than that, but for now the answer will do. She nods slowly and glances back to her magazine. His tapping has slowed slightly, but he’s still doing it and keeps doing it for another few minutes before Gaby finally sighs and looks up again.

“Is something bothering you?”

“Lots of things.” He replies quickly and he glances down, away from her. Gaby thinks now is as good a time as any and so she starts to speak.

“You know, Napoleon asked me something last night that was rather interesting.”

“What is that?” Illya replies but he sounds bored about it.

“He asked me to decide, between himself and you.” Gaby replies and Illya’s attention is now solely fixed on her and she feels almost blown away by his intense stare. She’s felt it before but this is different. Anxiety comes rolling across the room from him in waves and she sees him fidget, the tapping now audible on the surface of the sofa as he starts going quickly. She thinks she sees him swallow.

“Decide between us for what, exactly?” He asks, though he has to already know. He has to know.

“About which of you I wanted more.” She replies bluntly since he’s going to be playing dumb about it. She adds the word more without thinking because it’s true, she has wanted both of them. Illya looks distressed, to say the least. Like he wants to run his hands through his hair or perhaps make an escape. Gaby feels as though he looks like he’s a worm at the end of the hook about to be lowered into water for a fish to snap him up.

He stands up without asking about her choice and he goes to look out the window. The curtains were pulled back earlier to give a view of the city and it really is beautiful, but not anywhere near as much as the man standing looking out at it.

“You’re not going to ask me what I decided?” She asks, prolonging his torture needlessly, but she has to do it. She’s twisted a little on the inside; besides, she reasons, it’ll be over soon.

Illya is quiet for a long while, tension evident in his body. He turns, face unreadable, as he comes to some conclusion that he’s made inside of his head. Gaby only wonders what that could be.

“I wish you every happiness together.” He turns again and starts for the door, his carriage stiffer than any piece of steel.

“Illya, wait.” She calls out, scrambling to get up before he actually reaches the door but he ignores her. It isn’t until she latches onto his arm that’s outstretched for the doorknob that he turns and looks at her as if he’s just been seared by a red hot poker.

“Must you torture me further?” He hisses through gritted teeth. Gaby suddenly regrets having played this game, twisted or not. He looks wounded, hurt, and she doesn’t think she’ll be able to fix it. “He can give you everything you want, you don’t think I don’t know that? He’s…” Illya struggles for words and gestures to Napoleon’s suit jacket that rests over a chair in the lounge. Gaby knows what he means; Napoleon is just too devastatingly perfect to compete with. 

Gaby takes his gesturing hand in both of hers and holds it against her chest. It’s gone to a fist once she touched him and she squeezes it as she looks to his eyes. He still looks hurt but he just can’t help himself from staying close to her.

“I chose you, idiot.” She says softly and Illya stiffens again. He blinks once, twice, but he shakes his head in the end.

“Me?” And the poor love actually looks confused as to why she would have made such a decision, Gaby notes and she pulls his fist to her lips and kisses his knuckles. He got into a fight at some point, she notices the rough skin under her lips. She wonders how that happened.

“You. Of course I would pick you.” She says still softly. He hasn’t quite come down from his tormented state and she doesn’t want to spark him to violence. She’s gotten a pretty good idea of his moods and reactions to things, but she still is not an expert and doesn’t want to push it further than necessary because everything is still so sensitive and it could explode in her face. That’s the last thing she wants, because she really does want him. So desperately she truly aches for him.

Illya still looks confused but Gaby won’t let him overthink anything so that he leaves her, so she stretches as tall as she can go and pulls him close, crashing their lips together as he stoops to her level. Illya is lethargic in his reply, dazed almost, but when he comes round he truly comes back to life. One arm slides around her waist and hauls her into him and she’s trying to press even closer to him, to crawl inside him almost because she needs him so badly it’s truly beginning to hurt now.

He picks her up and her legs instantly wrap around his waist. Illya secures her to him by having one hand slide under her butt to hold her against him while the other winds into her hair and removes the pins she’d placed in it. It falls down her back like a mahogany curtain and his hand is in the silky tresses before she can take another breath.

Like before, they kiss passionately and there’s no stopping Illya from taking charge of the kiss. Gaby doesn’t think it’s possible, but maybe he’s wanted this more than she has, and therefore he refuses to back down. That doesn’t stop her from fighting him in the kiss, but eventually she relents with a whimper as he moves them back towards the window because there’s a wall there and he needs something to press her against.

Gaby doesn’t mind the feel of it behind her back because there’s so much going on against her front that she will pay no mind to a few scrapes from the rough stucco. She doesn’t even mind the dress she’s in may get frayed. Illya’s muscles are better than she remembers despite the fact there’s still a shirt in the way. She makes a sound of protest and tugs at the offending garment and Illya shifts slightly enough for her to pull it free of his trousers.

“Please,” she breathes. “I want to touch you.”

He groans and balances her somehow to pull it all the way off. Gaby rests her head against the wall, taking a moment to get oxygen back into her bloodstream. She’s watching through half-open eyes as his pale skin is revealed to her and she moans in appreciation at the sight of him. Illya’s lips are on hers again as her hands roam over his body free of obstruction. He supporting her by holding her thighs around him but he wants more, she can tell from the way he grinds their hips together.

They kiss for what simply has to be several lifetimes put together, but somehow time hasn’t completely eclipsed them when she feels Illya’s fingers running down her back, the zipper giving away as he does so. His knuckles brush along the skin of her back as more and more is revealed. Eventually, the dress falls open in the back and he’s moving them again, this time to the bed she’d been sharing with Solo. Now, it’s convenient and it’s close, and nothing but their relationship will be consummated here. Gaby is set down beside the bed so that she can step out of the dress and Illya’s eyes travel over her body as she is before him in nothing but her underwear and the flats she put on earlier.

“I have never seen anything more beautiful,” he says on an exhale of breath and Gaby blushes slightly. He lets his finger brush along her cheek before he drops it to run along her collarbone and then between her two breasts.

She lifts her chin to meet his eyes and her hands run along his chest, across his abdomen, and then finally to the top of his trousers where she undoes his belt. Illya drops his hand to cover both of hers and stills their movement. Uncertainty is back in his eyes and Gaby’s heart swells again.

“Are you sure you want—?”

“If you don’t make love to me right now, then I will put _you_ over _my_ knee.” She would’ve put both of her hands on her hips if they hadn’t been so nicely held in his grasp. His lips flicker into a smile but he releases her hands to undo his own trousers. She makes to remove her bra but he makes a choked sound.

“I will do it, just a moment.” He shoves his trousers down and kicks them away along with his shoes, remaining in his briefs. Gaby isn’t sure what she expected him to wear, but standard issue white underwear is what he is in. And they mercifully leave little to the imagination.

Illya’s fingers are still cold as they come around to her back to remove her bra. Gaby shivers at their temperature and the air hits her flushed skin when the bra falls away. She’s bare to him and shyness starts to flutter somewhere in her mind and she wants to cover herself but Illya moves the same time she has the thought to cover herself. He kneels before her and pulls her close to him as his mouth covers one nipple. Gaby groans and arches into his mouth, her hands settling on top of his head to keep her balance.

Illya holds her by the hips as he kisses her skin and tastes it. She feels her underwear dampen as he flicks his tongue across her nipple and she wants that tongue very much to be somewhere else right now. She moans aloud when his hand slides along her sex. She knows he can feel how wet she is for him and she doesn’t care. She wants him so badly and has for a month or longer.

“Illya, please.” She begs him again and tugs on his hair lightly. He nods and pulls her underwear down her legs, going slowly about doing so. He helps remove her shoes and then his hands are roaming everywhere. Up her legs, across her hips, flexing his fingers along her backside, holding her still as he kisses her mound at the soft hair there. Gaby pitches forward when his mouth kisses her clit before his tongue presses against it. Her abdomen clenches tightly and she gasps aloud as he begins to tease her with his lips. She struggles to have her legs parted enough for him while maintaining her balance. Her legs begin to shake under the struggle of it and Illya smiles, or maybe he smirks, against her sex as he continues to suck softly on her clitoris.

Gaby cries out as a finger inters her and her nails have to be hurting him with how tightly they’re dug into his shoulders and his scalp. She bucks her hips against his face and he adds an extra finger. He moves his fingers quickly as his tongue lavishes her sensitive bundle of nerves. Then she’s exploding into the stars and her thighs clamp around his head because she can’t keep them open any longer. She is bent half-over him as her orgasm contorts her body for pleasure. Her legs are made of jelly as she finally comes back to something of her senses and she can’t breathe properly.

Illya strokes the smooth skin of her thighs and watches her face out of concern. Her come is still glistening on his lips and Gaby leans down to taste herself on him. He groans at the action but holds her close as he rises and then leans over her as he lays her back on the bed. His weight is even more comforting than Solo’s was because he is the one she wanted, the one she needed and Gaby is so very happy she made the right choice.

He kisses her deeply as he struggles to remove the last piece of clothing he was wearing. Somehow he manages to get them off without leaving her lips alone and he runs his hands along her body. She hears him say something in Russian but she can’t translate his language all that well yet. She’ll have forgotten it by the time all of this is over, she’s sure of it because he’s good, too good, for her to remember anything. Her own name, for example, is almost to the point where it’s a mystery.

“Illya…” She whispers against his mouth and he pulls back just enough to look into her eyes. She runs her hands through his hair and then down to cup his face. She brushes her thumb along his jaw as she smiles softly. His concern melts into fondness and she leans up to kiss him. She wants to say I love you, but that’s too soon and everything is too fresh to say that. So she says nothing and simply spreads her legs again to pull him closer with her thighs around his waist. She can’t help her hands from leaving his face to slide down his back, one hand even going so far as to squeeze his ass and God, no man should have an ass like that.

He groans when she touches him and he shifts to press himself into her. He goes slowly at first, allowing her the time to adjust to his size before he moves faster. Gaby moans at the feeling of him. He’s big, but she had expected he would be, and what’s more is that he’s moving at just the right pace to create the amount of friction that sends her into a tailspin of a shivering, moaning wreck. He’s going to destroy her, all right. She’ll never want another man for the rest of her life because he’s perfect and the way he makes her feel is even more so. She feels tears prick her eyes but she tries to push them away. She feels so much for him that it’s not possible to contain it.

She kisses him as she comes again, moaning into his mouth as her watering eyes finally overspill and a tear leaks down the side of her face. Illya feels her around him and he lasts for only a few more thrusts before he’s groaning her name. She can feel his entire body shudder on top of hers and she holds tightly to him, both breathing as heavily as if they had climbed the tallest mountain in the universe. She closes her eyes and barely registers him moving out of her, but he stays delightfully on top of her.

Illya is the first to come back to his senses and he props himself up onto an elbow to look down on her face. Gaby feels his finger along her cheek, absorbing the tear that leaked out. She opens her eyes and see him look remorseful, guilty even. Oh no, please tell me he doesn’t regret… Her heart stops for a moment as he speaks.

“I hurt you.” He looks as if he wants to punish himself for doing such a thing and Gaby shakes her head.

“No you didn’t. I mean, I might walk a little funny later, but I wouldn’t consider that _hurting_ me, per se…” She’s rambling and doesn’t know why, all she knows is that look needs to be removed from his face posthaste. 

“You cried.” He says again, the tear stain having been wiped away.

Gaby shifts closer to him and kisses his shoulder lightly. She looks embarrassed and doesn’t quite meet his eyes but almost does when she replies. “I…felt emotional during…” she makes a gesture and hopes he drops the subject. 

Illya pulls her into his body as he rolls onto his back. He kisses her temple softly and holds her so that she is the one on top now. He runs a soothing hand along her spine while the other tilts her chin up. His expression has changed to one of concern.

“I love you.” He says and there it is. On the table like Gaby had wanted it to be. Was it possible to love someone after knowing them only a month? Really, it had only been three days because she loved him the first night they spent in a hotel room together when they wrestled and she learned that he liked his women strong. She should have known then, but she’d pretended otherwise.

She can’t say it still, but she doesn’t want to hurt him. So she does say, only it’s in German. He seems to know what she meant though because he leans forward and kisses her deeply. Gaby exhales happily and hugs him with her head in the nook of his shoulder, much like the way he told her she had passed out the first night together. Illya doesn’t move apart from his fingers running along her spine and she smiles. She doesn’t think she’s ever been this happy before.

She hated Russians, but she fell in love with one of them. Their differences would cause arguments in the future, she was sure of that, but for now, he was the flame and she was the moth, or perhaps it was the other way around? Gaby didn’t mind. She had the one she wanted and just to prove it to herself once again, she leaned up and kissed him again.

* * *

Napoleon shook his head as he re-entered the hotel. He had seen Illya shirtless before but this was the first time he’d seen Gaby wrapped around him and they were making out like it was the end of the world. Casually, he strolled into the hotel bar and leaned against it, smiling at the barmaid.

“What can I get you sir?” She asked and her accent was positively enchanting. Napoleon smiled at her, knowing she already found him handsome.

“Well, I just discovered my wife is having an affair. So I’ll take a stiff drink of something you recommend.” She seems taken aback by his complete casual complacency of the event and he gives her a wink before she’s off trying to figure out what to give him to satisfy his order.

Napoleon smiles to himself and when the drink finally comes he gives an imaginary salute to the pair of them in his hotel suite and sips the gin and tonic. A pretty blonde catches his eye and Napoleon lowers the glass before he decides to make his way over to her and introduce himself.

If Illya and Gaby can have some fun, why can’t he?


End file.
